


can't you hear me howlin', babe?

by eat_crow



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27305515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eat_crow/pseuds/eat_crow
Summary: Sick of their village being laid to waste by werewolves on the full moon, Arthur goes on a hunt with his father to kill them once and for all and bring peace.Until he realizes he already knows one of them.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 115





	can't you hear me howlin', babe?

**Author's Note:**

> a full moon on halloween quick post werewolves
> 
> i've been sitting on this ALL MONTH to post it today. i'm very excited to share it and very tired of looking at it.
> 
> of course, title is from [a hozier song](https://youtu.be/WtOVP3_Y5tA), bc i have a problem

Arthur adjusts his bow over his shoulder. The bowstring has chafed the side of his neck until it is raw, but he pays it no mind. His adrenaline pounds too heavily in his veins for him to be focused on much of anything.

The full moon is rising.

His father lights the way with a torch in one hand and a broadsword in the other, the perfect leader in this grisly crusade. To Arthur's right is Leon, whose hand shakes around the sickle he carries but whose eyes are steady and forward. To Arthur's left is black, murky darkness, closing in with branches of pine and creeping ivies.

Tonight is the last straw, the last night they will ever cower under the oppression of the wolves. Livestock left gutted in blood soaked hay, families shredded down to their sinew in their own homes. It ends now. With the full moon at her peak the wolves will draw themselves from the mud and be sculpted into breathing creations. Ungodly. Blasphemous.  _ Mortal. _

Arthur presses his hand flat against the strap for his quiver of arrows that crosses his chest. He isn't afraid he'll miss his mark. He's afraid of the reason to fire.

His boots are sucked in by the muck. The stagger he keeps to walk without losing a boot has him out of breath. When he dares, he looks to the moon, fat and white like goats milk foaming under a boil. 

The moon is directly overhead when the first cry comes from beyond the trees, long and mournful. Everyone in their party tenses. The torch bends with the wind. It dares to flicker out, the embers burn red. His father draws it close behind his hand and blows it back to life.

A second cry joins the first. The trees shiver in a fear their party will not show.

"The calls are Northbound," his father says. "We'll follow them to the beasts." He can feel Leon's eyes on him, but he does not turn his head to give a reassuring nod. He stares out into the inky black that lies between the trees. It grows under his eye, watching him in return, swallowing every patch of grass and moss that was once under the moonlight.

They walk for hours, or maybe only minutes. Time drags on but the moon does not move. It glares at them, hateful in the face of those who would strike down its dark, foul children.

Leon spots the beast first.

The only word that comes to Arthur's mind is  _ huge _ .

And, possibly,  _ oh, dear god. _

It's the size of a horse carriage. It walks over the earth in paws bigger than Arthur's own hands. Its shaggy coat is black and greying in the snout. Its eyes glow golden.

It pulls its lips back to bare its yellow, piercing teeth. It growls. The rumble of it rattles in Arthur's chest like a stampede of cattle.

Arthur pulls his bow over his head. His father mutters his name in warning, but he has already nocked an arrow. The bowstring creaks as he pulls it back. He takes aim.

"On your word," he says.

The wolf does not move. Its dreaded tail swishes from side to side, fanning the soil and kicking up leaves. It stares dead into Arthur's eyes. There's an intelligence within, a recognition, that gives Arthur pause. He shifts his footing but his aim doesn't waiver.

The wolf's hackles raise with no provocation. It snarls. Its tail sticks outward. Its knowing eyes are in the trees to Arthur's left, but it crouches and steps toward the party.

"Now!" Arthur's father shouts, already stepping to the side. 

Arthur's hooked fingers release the bowstring.

The arrow imbeds in the meaty hollow between the throat and shoulder.

The beast yelps, high pitched and choked. It shakes its head and the thick fur on the back of its neck tosses back and forth.

Their party advances, but they cannot get close. Every step is met with barred, slobbering teeth and a blood curdling snarl. The beast digs its foot into the ground.

"Arthur!"

"Yes sir," he says, nocking another arrow. He does not take the same time to aim but it still digs into its ribcage with a thick  _ thunk _ . The beast howls. It doubles back and takes off in a limping gait in the opposite direction of where it stared.

"After it!" His father orders, and the party takes off.

All but Arthur, who hesitates. His shoulders prickle. There are eyes on him. He can feel them burning with hatred, boiling with fear.

There was a second howl.

Another beast stalks from the trees. It is no smaller than the first, though maybe thinner. Its fur is a void, swallowing the moonlight as if it feeds on it. Its head hangs low as it gains on him. Its teeth are as shining and insidious as the moon itself.

Arthur's heart pounds in his mouth. He's frozen to the spot. His breath is light and tentative and quiet as he watches the beast, and it watches him. Its eyes are golden and shining. He tightens his grip on his bow. It takes a step forward.

He turns to run, but his boot is stuck firmly in the mud and his ankle twists as he's pulled free from it. He goes down with a sharp cry. He lands hard on his hip and elbow. His arrows go flying. He pushes himself backward as the wolf advances, clawing the earth for arrows he cannot find, his clothing dragging through the mud and gaining weight.

Something slight and straight prods his back, and he reaches for it as quickly as he can manage. The fletchings of his arrow are plastered down and his shaking hand slips on the shaft when he tries to nock it on the bowstring.

The beast only stops when he aims and pulls back the bowstring. It snarls for the first time, the hair on its back stands on end. It's no more than a foot away, snarling at Arthur's feet. Its massive head is the size of Arthur's torso. Arthur's heart has never beat so rapidly in all his years on earth.

It looks between his weapon and his face like it's calculating. It sniffs the air and steps forward. Arthur can't move. His hands are too slippery, his grip too unsure. His breath fights through his tight throat. The beast hovers over him. Any moment now, it will pounce. Even the most sure arrow will not save him. 

A cloud blocks the moon overhead. Arthur and the wolf are cast in shadow.

The gold in the beast's eyes dulls with the loss of the moon. Flecks of gold still shine where the cloud lets its light escape, but where there is none the glow is washed over with a blue like the ocean in the middle of a winter storm. They're present, they're  _ human _ . Arthur grips his bow so tightly his knuckles turn white.

He's seen those eyes before. As ridiculous as it is to reap familiarity in the eyes of a monster he knows them, he's sure of it.

The cloud passes. The beast pins its ears back and growls.

He knows someone with those eyes, bluer than the sky at dusk. Who winks and loads his cart with extra cheese when their fathers aren't looking. Who pulls him into spinning dances at bonfires and readily shares his drink as if Arthur's lips touching the same cup as his own gives him a thrill. Who once had too much to drink at Beltane and asked him if he'd like to celebrate the year's fertility in private.

A merchant's son that departs from the village every third week for supplies, and conveniently does not return with his father until well after the full moon, without fail.

His mind is playing tricks on him. The  _ moon _ is playing tricks on him.

He does not know this creature.

"Merlin?" He asks anyway.

The beast tilts its head. Its ears prick forward.

"You don't understand a word I'm saying," he says. The beast growls. Arthur's eyebrows twitch. "Well, do you?" A wag of the tail. A coincidence, surely. His familiarity is imagined. It has to be. This  _ thing _ and the man who laid him into the grass on a spring night are not one in the same. It is a creature of evil built to maim and destroy and it must be killed for the safety of his village.

And on the off chance this is Merlin, he is responsible for the devastation of their village. He's a murderer, a beast of death and carnage fueled by an old religion no one dares huddle in congregation to. By all accounts, he deserves to be killed in return.

His arrow is nocked, his bowstring pulled, his aim taken. All Arthur has to do is let go.

Let go and it will all be over.

He can end this.

His fingers will not move.

Arthur slackens his bowstring with a swear. He drops his head and grimaces at the cold. The wolf's hackles lower. It sniffs the ground where Arthur's desperate attempts at escape dug deep trenches into the earth.

Arthur rolls to push himself up on his hands and knees and then to his feet. His woolen sock squelches in the mud. He can't retrieve his boot without getting closer to the wolf, and there's not a chance in hell he's going near it. It's dangerous. Even if it is Merlin. Possibly.  _ Maybe _ .

" _ Arthur! _ " Comes a cry from the distance. The wolf tenses. So does Arthur. He can see an orange light, barely a speck. It's getting closer. " _ Arthur! _ " The wolf's hackles raise once more. It watches the torch with murderous intensity.

"You have to go," Arthur says. The wolf doesn't move. "Merlin," he tries, and the wolf spares him a glance. He grits his teeth. "Leave.  _ Now. _ Before they kill you." It takes a little step backward, more preoccupied with staring ahead. “Go!” He slashes his bow through the air to make the wolf take another step back. It looks into his imploring eyes, something helpless and angry in how it looks to the party of men behind. With a light bow of its head, it turns and runs into the trees.

“ _ Arthur! _ ”

“I’m here!” He calls back, when the wolf is completely out of sight. He looks over his shoulder to find his father advancing from the shadows, bathed in orange.

“Have you any sense, boy?” His father snaps. “You cannot be out here alone, not tonight!”

“I’m sorry,” he says. He rubs his nose with the heel of his thumb, but only succeeds in smearing sludge over his upper lip. 

“What were you doing?”

“There was…” he swallows and casts his eyes to the dark treeline. “There was a boar. It ran at me.” His father looks him up and down, covered in mud, his quiver empty, his boot sticking out of the mud some paces away. A strike of fear hits him when he sees the massive paw prints in the earth, and he is worried he will be caught in his lie, before his father claps him on his shoulder.

“I don’t want to see you acting so foolishly again,” he says. Arthur nods.

“It won’t happen again, sir.” His father allows him to yank on his boot before he begins to regale him with the tale of killing the wolf Arthur shot, how they gave chase until it could run no more. Arthur nods when prompted, and congratulates their bravery, but he does not listen. He is drawn to the trees, that yawning darkness. Somewhere deep within, a wolf howls.

As the mud dries and hardens on his skin, Arthur asks himself what he’s done.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked it!
> 
> i will be posting the first chapter of a multichap fic tomorrow, nov. 1st, so if you liked this... read it maybe. and as always you can find me on tumblr [@sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


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